


To Prove You're Clever

by thesignsofserbia



Series: A Study in Nightmares [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Concussions, Doctor John, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Major Character Injury, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s knowledge of Sherlock is frighteningly intimate at times, but he is the fundamental glue that holds all the pieces of Sherlock together. He relies on John a lot more than he is comfortable to admit.</p><p>John understands him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Prove You're Clever

**Author's Note:**

> Another loose entry to the 'A Study In Nightmares' Series in which Sherlock makes a tiny mistake on a case, and gets a concussion to show for it.

 

  
Most of the time it’s good.

  
No.   


Scratch that; most of the time it’s _brilliant_.

  
He’s back where he belongs, the one place that he’s _always_ felt he belongs, where he’s not a freak, a machine, or some raging psychopath; he’s amazing, fantastic, genius. A place where he can just be _Sherlock_.

  
He had to fight tooth and nail in the beginning to seize back control, had to sweat and battle to reclaim his rightful place in his _own life_ , to show everyone that he deserves it. There is not another human being alive who else could ever hope to fill that place, and still, he is not exactly welcomed back with open arms.

  
He _does_ love being Sherlock Holmes, and now that he _can_ be again at long last, it’s like deliverance.

  
Not that anyone else seems to think so, they’ve still got that nagging doubt in the back of their minds, that lingering feeling of betrayal; the mistrust that he can't help but see.

  
It might not be entirely fair that he has to work for it; that he has to persistently struggle to insert himself back into the Sherlock shaped hole in the world, only to find that it doesn’t quite fit him anymore. His skin is just a little too tight.

  
But that’s just how it is. He is in no position to complain or bemoan any feelings of having been wronged; it was no one's fault but his own, he accepts that.

  
He’d had to fight John too, not with his fists though, that part had been a one way street, but to reconcile. It had been very difficult and precarious, trying to persuade John that his apologies were sincere, and that their friendship was _worth_ fighting for.

  
So they had fought, extensively.

  
Sherlock has had enough fighting for a lifetime, having probably filled his quota in the last two years alone. But he would sit through a nuclear holocaust, the end of civilisation itself, if it meant John would forgive him.

  
And John did eventually come around, he was agonisingly slow about it, but when he did it was still electric, their worlds colliding together again under some inexplicable force of gravity.

  
It almost felt like it had been inevitable.

  
John no longer resents him for staging his suicide, he _has_ forgiven him, of that he has no doubt, their dynamic has clicked and Sherlock feels secure in their friendship once more. But complete forgiveness is notoriously hard to come by, it requires time. John has his bad days, everyone has bad days.

  
Very occasionally everything goes to hell, the clinic is a disaster zone, Sherlock is in a foul mood; any number of stressful or trying events can occur that prompt negative emotions, and as a result all of that past hurt is dredged up from the depths.

  
John’s residual anger, his grief from the fall comes out every now and again. Sherlock hates it, but accepts that it is bound to happen, John has every right.

  
For a man so frequently antagonised, John rarely loses his temper as a general rule, and Sherlock secretly believes that John Hamish Watson is the most patient man in England for somehow managing to put up with him and the subsequent crap he has to deal with.

  
But when he does really lose his temper, it always stems back to the same subject, and every time it feels like a low blow.

  
They’ll have a row, and John will silence him with a snide reference to his ‘holiday,’ or something along those lines, which Sherlock can find no response to. John still doesn’t know the whole story, and if Sherlock has anything to do with it, it will remain that way.

  
He just wishes they could move past it.

  
It’s nothing new, the shouting, storming out (mostly John) and slamming doors childishly (mostly Sherlock); they did all this before. But it’s different now, because on these occasions Sherlock can’t shout back, or be dismissive of John’s feelings.

  
It’s the same argument, it just takes different forms, all boiling down to the same thing; you _left_. But how can he even begin to retaliate? Sherlock _has_ no defence for that, he’s entirely guilty, and they both know it.

  
There is nothing to be said or done about it, and that makes it harder to resolve.

  
They’re not regular, these quieter, _deadlier_ arguments, they are becoming less frequent, and they always _do_ resolve them, but…they’re still _there_.

  
Honestly Sherlock would be more unsettled if they _didn’t_ fight about it, a direct assault has always been better to him than passive aggressive silences and repressed hatred. This is by far more preferable to John pushing his anger down until it goes supernova and destroys them both in the process.

  
He hopes that by getting it all out in the open, reconciliation will be that much easier, and faster, to obtain.

 

Sherlock is not a patient man by nature, but in this case he is prepared to wait it out, no matter how hard it may be. He must.

 

Sherlock never considered for a moment what would happen if John had refused to so much as give him the time of day. He deliberately avoided that train of thought, two years had been hellish, but being unable to see John for the _rest of his life_ was unthinkable.

  
Only John shares his sense of humour, he picks up on his morbid jokes; John laughs _with_ him rather than at him. Only John understands his working process, how to facilitate his needs, and how to provide assistance without getting in the way.

  
Only John knows his limits, and just how far he can let Sherlock go past them before he puts his foot down, for the sake of Sherlock’s health.

  
Only John knows Sherlock’s tells when something is _really_ wrong. John gets away with nagging and bossing him about, when he would verbally eviscerate anyone else for doing so without a second thought.

  
John understands him, but even more, he _values_ these insights, cares for Sherlock, sees him in a different light to the others, and seems to want the world to see Sherlock as John sees him, rather than to vilify him.

  
John has immortalised him, using this precious knowledge in transcribing his eccentricities, his philosophy of deduction, his accomplishments, his entire life; putting it into writing, with a little added embellishment.

  
John has ensured that history will remember him fondly, and together they will never be forgotten, and to his surprise, this secretly pleases him. He has someone in his corner, someone who thinks his existence is worth remembering, he never had that before.

  
John’s knowledge of Sherlock is frighteningly intimate at times, but he is the fundamental glue that holds all the pieces of Sherlock together. He relies on John a lot more than he is comfortable to admit.

  
John has become a vital part of the work and his life, Sherlock can’t even begin to imagine the gaping void that would be left behind upon his _permanent_ departure.

  
But he doesn’t have to go there anymore, to prepare for the worst; it will never happen, he would never _allow_ it to happen, for as long as that decision rests in his hands.

  
Sherlock will never leave John Watson. Not again; not voluntarily, and he will do _anything_ within his power to keep John by his side.

  
Because now they are partners again, and with John standing unshakeable at his side, conducting his brilliance for the world to see; they are invincible. He is too invested in this to so much as contemplate letting it go.

  
Never again.

  
As Lestrade had become so fond of commenting, it _was_ actually kind of nice to ‘have the gang back together again’ so to speak. He desperately needs some familiarity back in his life.

  
Everything was falling back into place.

  
~

  
They’re racing their way through the laneways and backstreets, hot on the heels of a _tediously_ dull murderer. One who had accidentally made the case out to be spectacularly promising by unknowingly recreating the exact circumstances of a simply _brilliant_ 13 year old mystery.

  
Unfortunately as it turned out, their man was _not_ a homicidal maniac with staggering intellect; he was an unemployed plumber from Blackpool, up to his neck in gambling debts.

 

He’d actually have been far better off if his crime had been mind-numbingly simple, and therefore not even worth a second glance. Because unfortunately for _him_ , his idiocy had brought him under the full scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes; The World’s Only Consulting Detective. The man never stood a chance.

 

Still, no matter how boring an example of one he may be; he was a murderer all the same, and what he lacked in creativity he made up for entirely in blunt sadism.

  
This entire case has been a _monumental_ waste of his time, so it’s a welcome sight when Sherlock sees a flutter of cheap coat vanish around the next corner, a minute more and Sherlock will be on him. Then they can finally go home, have tea, and Sherlock can ruin the crossword for John by continuing to be _‘a walking bloody thesaurus’_.

 

He’ll have to find a way for Lestrade to reimburse him for the disappointment. A month free of any of his banal paperwork should suffice he smirks to himself as he tears round the corner…and stops.  


_What the fuck?_

  
The narrow path ahead is clear, strewn full of perilous rubbish bags and dubious substances, but minus their quarry, which doesn’t make any sense. Sherlock was right behind him, practically breathing down his neck, there’s no _way_ he would have had time to wade through all that.

  
He’s lost him. _How has he lost him?!_

  
Sherlock growls and whirls around 360 degrees; he looks up to check the fire escapes above. It’s dark but there is obviously no one up there, so concentrating hard, he turns his attention to the ground and attempts to deduce the man’s movements amongst the chaos of filth and disarray. He stands after a fruitless examination, frustrated and wrinkling his nose at the stench.

  
He hears the gravel crunch menacingly behind him; _oh_.

  
_You missed the alcove,_ a voice in the back of his head taunts unhelpfully, sounding infuriatingly like Mycroft; _getting slow are we, brother dear_?

  
Obvious, _obvious,_ how did he not _see_?

  
It could have something to do with the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he slept for more than 3 hours.

  
The last time he’d eaten something had been approximately 26 hours ago, when John forced a piece of toast into him with a good natured; ‘You can only survive on nutrients from the air and photosynthesis for so long before you need to actually eat like the rest of us mortals,’ to which he’d grumbled something about his cells not possessing any chlorophyll.

  
But now, even with his mind hurling itself into fight or flight mode with the impending danger, processing at top speed, he doesn’t have time to so much as open his mouth before a lead pipe connects with the back of his skull and his vision warps, like film buckling and curling from intense heat.

  
Sherlock crumples to the floor, eyes rolling into his head; out cold, before he even hits the ground.

 

His last thought, bizarrely, is that John has no hope of completing his crossword now.

  
~

  
John skids around the corner, just in time to see everything, but too far behind to do any good. It’s not in slow motion, it happens dizzyingly fast, and before John can even catch his breath, all the air is evacuating his lungs again.

  
The _crack_ that reverberates off the brick is earth shattering, and waves of dread roll through him.

  
There was a lot of force behind that blow, and it found its mark with conviction on the back of his head, landing squarely over the occipital bone. Not just any head either, _Sherlock’s_ head; the one that housed one of the most brilliant minds in the history of recorded time.

  
Blunt force trauma like that could easily kill, and frequently did. How many cases had they worked involving death that resulted from a single blow to the head? Too many to count.

  
John could already be too late.

  
Sherlock’s cranium could have splinted upon impact, it could be severely fractured, and probably is; the sutures of bone buckling under the extreme force. His brain might be swelling and bleeding at this very moment, Sherlock could be dead, or permanently paralysed. But there was a worse possibility.

  
_Sherlock could be brain-damaged._

  
But; he isn’t.

  
He _is_ however temporarily unconscious, and seriously concussed.

 

Sherlock doesn’t make much sense on the way to A&E, shouting in some foreign language that sounds Slavic. He’s a menace for the paramedics trying to treat him on route, because he keeps trying to fight his way into a sitting position and escape, even though he can barely stay upright.

  
He’s half-conscious but still aggressive; defensive like a caged animal, not understanding that the hands on him are benevolent, but this is interspersed with periods of stiff, distrusting but helpless compliance, where Sherlock’s face is so horrendously empty. And John has never been so afraid.

  
He’s so focused on Sherlock in the moment of the blow that his assailant gets away. Lestrade swears that they’ll catch him, with a dark look on his face, but all that fades into the background and his vision narrows to a pin-prick of one man.

  
Because Sherlock is _down_ , and that’s all he can think about.  


Sherlock crumpling to the ground with only a muted _‘oh’_ , Sherlock lying boneless, face-down in a filthy alley way in the arse-end of London. Sherlock not moving or responding as John screams his name over and over, Sherlock’s pulse; thready and too fast but _there_.

  
If he’d had time, John would have shot the suspect in the back of _his_ worthless and pathetic head, but he didn’t have a second to spare, Sherlock is all that matters. Nothing else exists but the white noise in John’s ears and Sherlock’s body lying pale and still.

  
They’re at the emergency department for four and a half hours, and the staff are fervently against discharging him, but once John determines that his friend isn’t critically injured, he’s not having any of the nurses’ complaints.

  
John makes them triple check the results. There is only the tiniest of hairline fractures; Sherlock’s skull and his brilliant brain are miraculously intact.

  
John is a doctor, he knows how to treat a concussion, and there is no way in hell he is letting Sherlock out of his sight for another moment.

  
The staff are disgruntled and appalled that he would even suggest discharging him, but John eventually gets his way. He suspects Mycroft had some involvement in this but he doesn’t particularly care to find out.

  
Sherlock is unusually compliant after his initial agitation wears off, but he catches hold of John’s sleeve as John loudly makes his case, and he doesn’t let go the whole way back to the flat.

  
Back at the flat, Sherlock is upset. He doesn’t quite grasp what’s going on and he keeps asking about the ‘ingenious copycat murder,’ seemingly not remembering anything after Lestrade initially coming to Bakers Street with the case. John’s not especially concerned about this, temporary memory loss is a normal side effect of a concussion, but Sherlock seems to be.

  
Greg had stayed with John through that heart-stopping first hour while he waited for the doctor’s verdict, the inspector’s quiet presence being the only thing that kept him sane. Both of them silently repeating to themselves all the terrible consequences, the possibilities that could come from that type of blow, but determined not to voice them.

  
John knows it must have been incredibly hard on him too; Greg cares for Sherlock as if he was his own son, but he’d forced that aside to hold John together. John doesn’t think he can ever repay him for that.

  
Sherlock will be fine. But he’s in a fairly bad way, as concussions go, and it doesn’t help that he’s barely eaten or slept in days.

  
The amnesia is muddling the version of events in his mind; he keeps getting confused as to where they are and what he’s doing. He’s dizzy and nauseous; it takes three tries before John can get him to keep down the anti-nausea pills.

  
Sherlock keeps slurring something about ruining a crossword.

  
In the public domain, a concussion is often brushed off as a minor side-effect, like warnings of possible nausea on a box of paracetamol, and people don’t realise how deadly serious they can be.

  
Sherlock can’t pinpoint exactly what’s going on and he’s a little bit frightened, he’s so tired, and he doesn’t understand why John won’t let him sleep. He seems to think John’s punishing him for something by denying him rest, and briefly he wonders if Sherlock would have been better off spending the night in the hospital for observation.

  
Sherlock is behaving normally for the most part, but doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand. Unfortunately he’s also fully aware that something has gone wrong with his brain, his greatest asset, and is gripped by exaggerated bouts of dread.

  
John knows he’s fine, but Sherlock doesn’t and he won’t believe him.

  
John wishes Sherlock was oblivious, but he’s not, and he tells him over and over that he just has a concussion, trying to curb his friend’s distress, but the message doesn’t seem to stick.

  
He stops questioning his decision to discharge him when it becomes apparent that Sherlock doesn’t feel entirely comfortable being left alone, he’s disorientated and he only trusts John.

  
He would have worked himself up into an angry panic if he were left on a ward with no memory, unable to be sedated. John could never put him through that, no matter how uncomfortable this is for him to watch, because Sherlock would hate for anyone else to see him like this.

  
He feels a vague sense of regret over them making light of Sherlock’s similar drugged state after their encounter with Irene Adler.

  
It’s subtle and anyone else probably wouldn’t even notice these little changes, but John does, because this is Sherlock, and it’s troubling because John’s never seen him so vulnerable, and given the fact that this could go on for several days, Sherlock desperately needs the familiarity of the flat.

  
Sherlock is outwardly trying to pretend that he is fine, putting on that posh and arrogant persona of his, but he doesn’t even believe it himself, and his undercurrent of anxiety makes it entirely unconvincing.  


The treatment for concussion is rest, avoiding all physical activity, and limiting tasks that involve intense mental concentration, which of course is utterly impossible when you’re dealing with The World’s only Consulting Detective. So it’s going to be a difficult night ahead.

  
~

  
“Alright, I’m going to let you go to sleep now, but I have to wake you every two hours yeah? To make sure you come around easily and your symptoms don’t worsen.”

  
“Mmfph,” Sherlock contributes eloquently, eyelids drooping.

  
“I’ll ask you a few questions, same ones each time, just to be safe.”

  
“What sort of questions?” Sherlock groans, eager to get this over and done with so he can finally go to sleep.

  
“Uh, easy stuff; name, date of birth, if you remember why I’m waking you up, that sort of thing.”

  
“But you don’t even know my date of birth,” Sherlock huffs in amusement.

  
“I…”

  
John goes to protest and then realises it’s true, he hasn’t got a clue what Sherlock’s birthday is, it wasn’t on the tombstone, how the _hell_ has he managed to live with Sherlock for this long and not know his birthday?

  
It makes him wonder for the hundredth time what else he doesn’t know.

  
“Fine, favourite colour?”

  
Sherlock furrows his brows.

  
“Why would I have a preference?”

  
Now he’s just deliberately being difficult.

  
“Whatever, I’ll be on the sofa. If you need anything give me a call…within reason,” he adds quickly.

  
“Sofa?”

  
“Well I’m not navigating the stairs in the dark, every two hours so yeah, sofa it is.”

  
“Hmm.”

  
~

  
“You awake?” John whispers as he slips into Sherlock’s room, oddly feeling a bit like he shouldn’t be there.

  
At the sound of John’s voice Sherlock replies breathlessly, from very far away;

  
“ _I never wanted to leave_ , I didn’t choose to. I swear, I…”

  
That’s a no then; he’s definitely not awake.

  
“C’mon mate, work with me here, snap out of it,” he jostles Sherlock’s shoulder a little.

  
“Ugh,” Sherlock blinks owlishly, and then glares daggers.

  
“There you are.” A wave of relief rolls over him.

  
“I wasn’t aware I had moved.”

  
“Sherlock,” John chides him, accentuating the vowels, dragging the word out.

  
“Fine,” Sherlock grunts, “Concussion, Sherlock Holmes, Anderson is an idiot. Happy?”

  
John rolls his eyes; “Ecstatic.”

  
Sherlock grunts and rolls over, John watching as he drifts back to sleep. He has to remind himself that he’s just asleep, he’s not unconscious, or in a coma. Sherlock’s not lying dead in an alley somewhere; he’s home, he’s safe.

  
John reaches up and brushes Sherlock’s fringe off his forehead, feeling awkwardly sentimental as he thinks about Sherlock’s semi-wakeful words earlier.

  
“ _I know you didn’t_ ,” he whispers, “I know, and you’re here now. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

  
He reluctantly tears himself away and retreats to the sofa, double checking his alarm is set three times before he can slip into a restless sleep.

  
~

  
They do this a few more times until Sherlock tells John to get over it and just stay in his bed for the night seeing as he ‘continues to insist on torturing them both’, because that way all John has to do is poke Sherlock, get sworn at, roll over, and they can go back to sleep that much faster.

  
John is buggered, and he has to admit it’s a good idea, plus Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive memory foam mattress is a hell of a lot more comfortable than their old leather sofa, and a bit of a waste given that the man barely even looks at it most of the time.

  
He feels more relaxed having Sherlock so close, being surrounded by his warmth and scent easing his mind.

  
So he settles in-between 1000 thread count sheets and a mattress sent from heaven itself, surrounded by Sherlock, for the most luxurious 2 hours of sleep he’s ever had.

  
~

  
John’s alarm goes off and he turns to rouse Sherlock only to find him lying on his back in the dark, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.

  
“You were worried about brain damage.” Sherlock states with a hollow voice.

  
“Yeah,” John admits, “We all were, thank Christ you’re practically indestructible, hey?”

  
Sherlock doesn’t smile.

  
“What would have happened?” He asks solemnly, and when John doesn’t immediately have an answer, Sherlock pulls his focus from the ceiling and searches John’s face.

  
“What would have happened if I was?”

  
John’s not sure, he knows Sherlock wants him to say that nothing would have changed, that Mycroft wouldn’t have whisked him away somewhere, that he’d continue to live at Bakers Street with John, and John wants to give him that.

  
But he can’t promise that, it would all depend on the degree of the damage, how it presented, whether continuing on as normal would be a danger to them both, whether Sherlock would be paralysed and unable to climb the stairs…

  
It would depend on how much assistance Sherlock would need with day-to-day tasks, would he need John to be a full time carer? Would Sherlock even know his own name, let alone who John was? Would he be aware enough to know what he had lost?

  
How much of Sherlock Holmes would be left?

  
There were too many possible variations to give a concrete answer, and he won’t lie to him.

  
John would do that for Sherlock if he had to, thinks he could force himself to stay even if it were with the shell of a man he once knew.

  
But he would have to be realistic, would it be practical? Could he afford to effectively retire? Could he commit himself to that _indefinitely_?

  
He couldn’t control Mycroft Holmes either, what he might consider to be the best environment for him; Mycroft was Sherlock’s next of kin, so the decision ultimately wouldn’t be up to John.

  
He couldn’t imagine Sherlock being dragged down to the same level as the rest of humanity; it would be like clipping a bird’s wings. It would be heartbreaking, and he’s not sure if he could watch it happen. Would he be able to stay?

  
It felt like a betrayal even thinking it; abandoning Sherlock, but he’s honestly not sure he could do it, and him being a doctor doesn’t make the slightest difference, there’s a reason you’re not allowed to treat your loved ones.

  
These things aren’t simple and no one could ever predict their ability to handle something like that.

  
“I honestly don’t know.”

  
John’s answer is no comfort to him, if anything it only adds to his distress.

  
“But it didn’t happen Sherlock, I promise; you’re going to be just fine,” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand, and is surprised when the other man squeezes it right back. Neither of them feels the need to let go.

  
~

  
“Are you feeling any better?”

  
“My head’s clearer, but it feels like my skull is in a vice,” Sherlock groans, “What time is it?”

  
“Quarter past four,” John sighs.

  
Sherlock shifts under the covers, feeling stiff and sore all over; he still reeks of disinfectant, which is doing an exceptional job of suffocating his hyperactive senses, making him feel a bit ill in the process. Or maybe that’s the concussion.

  
“And how much longer are you going to insist on doing this? I thought the idea was to make me feel better, not worse.”

  
“No, the point of this is to determine that you haven’t lapsed into a damn coma in your sleep, and we’re going to keep it up until I say so. Right then; where are we, who are you and why am I waking you up?”

  
Sherlock groans but complies.

  
“We’re at 221B, I’m the smartest man you’ve ever met, and some _imbecile_ tried to kill me with a pipe.”

  
John heaves a long suffering sigh, “Close enough.”

  
John’s just drifting back to sleep when Sherlock clears his throat gruffly,

  
“It’s the sixth of January, you know, my birthday.”

  
John opens his eyes to look at him, and blinks, he hadn’t realised they were this close, but they seem to have met in the middle and Sherlock’s face is clear enough that he can see the tightness around his eyes, evidence of the headache to end all headaches that he must be experiencing.

  
John had been thinking about that. He’d agonised over it after Sherlock’s death, all the little details that he hadn’t known about him, the things he wished he’d asked.

  
It had tormented him, not knowing things he felt he should have, basic things everyone would assume he’d have known. But then it had been pushed to the back of his mind with Sherlock’s return scrambling his brain.

  
He’s not quite sure why it upsets him so much that he doesn’t know Sherlock’s birthday or his favourite colour, that he hasn’t heard any of his childhood stories or...anything about his past really.

  
He knows that Sherlock trusts him, Sherlock trusts him more than anyone; he is the very centre of Sherlock’s inner circle, the closest planet orbiting the sun, in a pretty sparse galaxy.

  
Maybe it’s because it worries him that if he doesn’t know, maybe no one does, or if they do, it’s likely not because Sherlock has divulged that information willingly.

  
It’s the everyday little confidants that are missing, the things that usually come with constructing a friendship, the snippets of a life offered up that allow you to grow close to a person, to truly know them.

  
John likes to think that he _is_ privy to Sherlock’s everyday preferences that he, uh, _knows what he likes_ , so to speak, though…not like that. John knows him, his likes and dislikes, Sherlock doesn’t even have to ask, because John knows what he needs, it’s one of the reasons they work so well together.

  
It shouldn’t be a big deal, knowing how someone takes their tea, and having that so ingrained in your muscle memory that you do it automatically every time the kettle boils. It’s an everyday task that people do for their loved ones every day, take for granted, maybe even bemoan. It used to frustrate John that Sherlock never made the tea, just another tiny responsibility that was always down to him.

  
He’d come to realise how insignificant that was when he was gone, all those times John fixed him a cup, not really paying attention to what he was doing.

  
He brews the tea for 8 minutes and 20 seconds, Sweetening it as per very precise specifications adding a splash of milk, careful not to use too much, (Sherlock was a fussy bastard and always made a face like he’d sucked a lemon if it was even a tiny bit too milky, too sweet, not sweet enough).

 

Turning to carry it to him only to find an empty chair staring him in the face gutted him every time.

  
John had become so used to making his tea this way that he no longer had to think about it, even with his flatmate’s peculiar standards, they simply became routine. Sherlock always preferred John to make his tea; he used to say that only John made it right, which always gave him a weird sense of satisfaction.

  
John would have made him all the tea in the world, any way he wanted it, if he’d just be alive to drink it. Grief is strange that way.

  
So it does matter. It matters to John that he is one of the only people who knows how to make tea exactly how Sherlock likes it, Sherlock values knowledge, and it seems stupid, but John values that he knows _this_.

  
John knows when Sherlock can be persuaded to eat, and when just he’s being a nuisance, wasting his breath. John knows from experience when not to interrupt, what to let slide and when to call him out for being an arse.

  
John is accustomed to Sherlock’s weird moods, his ups and downs, how to tell if he needs help but won’t ask, or if it could be a danger night. Determining whether or not an unco-operative Sherlock is hurt or not is should be an art form, and if it were, John would be famous.

  
John can recognise Sherlock’s weaknesses, even when he can’t himself (doesn’t want to acknowledge he has them), he knows when to ignore something that could be deemed sentimental, and he knows when to subtly step in in some of the more delicate situations.

  
He can tell, even from a distance, when Sherlock is uncomfortable, floundering socially…or about to throw diplomacy to the wind and start knee-capping his least favourites.

  
Sherlock’s acting abilities are phenomenal, but John prides himself in his ability to almost always be able to tell Sherlock’s fake smiles from the real ones.

  
There’s the sociopath one, the _‘I’m pretending to be listening to you_ one’, the dead-eyed insincere one which was frankly terrifying, the overly-exaggerated excitement one, the mocking sarcasm one, the _‘lopsided smirk of self-satisfaction’_ , the manipulative flirtation one, the private little ones when he’s pretending not to be pleased, his torturing-Mycroft one, the impatient _‘get to the damn point for god’s sake’_ one, the mischievous grin that always promised danger, and the ever-so-rare bright ones when John says something brilliant. Oh and the _murder_ smile, like a kid being taken to Disneyland on Christmas morning.

  
No one else knows these things as intimately as John, apart from maybe Mycroft, but he doesn’t count because Sherlock can’t stand to be in a room with him for more than twelve minutes at a time.

  
John knows the stupid things that are of no consequence to anyone but the two of them, like John knowing which products he uses, which dressing gown is his favourite, he finally understands how the sock index works, and that he has a large _framed_ poster of the periodic table on his wall, despite having known it by heart by age nine.

  
John knows that Sherlock loves chocolate biscuits like an open flame loves oxygen, but only two specific brands are acceptable. John knows that he gets cold easily, especially now he’s been back. John knows that if you give him vanilla tea, Sherlock will hurl things at you, there is nothing he despises more…except possibly cold showers.

  
John knows Sherlock’s body better than any flatmate has any right to, partially due a complete and utter disregard of modesty, and partially from having stitched him up so many times.

  
But Sherlock did it himself the last time, and he’s significantly more diligent about covering himself up recently. John can’t help but wonder what he’s hiding.

  
Sherlock is fluent in at least four languages, but John estimates he’s at a basic conversational level in about eight or nine; the man tends to occasionally switch between dialects when he’s thinking.

  
Plus there was that _one_ week where Sherlock spontaneously took it upon himself to teach John French…via intensive immersion therapy, where he would address John in nothing but French, whilst he spoke to everyone else in English. John learnt all the insults he could cram into his brain (there were so many to absorb) and deliberately nothing else. He’s never wanted a good pair of earplugs more in his life, and that includes the pre-dawn concertos.

  
John knows that cinemas and theatres overwhelm him; otherwise he might go to the orchestra regularly.

  
Sherlock has a very clear hierarchy of preferred restaurants which John has honed down over the years. It goes; French and Dim sum are preferable to Thai, Sherlock likes Thai over Italian, Italian over Indian, Indian over Greek, Greek over Japanese, _anything_ over beans on toast, and he refuses to even _look_ at meat pie. Chinese takeaway eclipses all other choices 90% of the time, but he mostly just subsists on toast and the occasional biscuit.

  
John discovered that Sherlock has never actually been to a McDonald's in his life, so he took him there as a post-case surprise. Sherlock sat there glaring at the servers, customers, and laughing children in open distain with his gloves on and spine straight, refusing to take his hands out of his lap or even open his mouth.

  
It means a lot to him that Sherlock has shared these experiences with him, even though to anyone else they seem trivial.

  
So he appreciates Sherlock confessing this to him, even such a small detail as his birthday.

  
He’s about satisfied with Sherlock’s prognosis, having admittedly persisted further than he would have with any other patient, and he decides to let the man rest.

  
He doesn’t go back to his own room, or even the sofa, and he sleeps more soundly than he has in two years.

  
~

  
John eventually gets up at about ten, though Sherlock doesn’t emerge until late afternoon.

  
He’s much calmer, acting as if nothing happened and refusing to complete Greg’s paperwork on the basis of ‘compensation’.

  
He utterly ruins John’s crossword, not even giving him 5 minutes with it before he destroys it with his bloody fountain of knowledge in less than three minutes. John swears blind that the bastard enjoys it far more than is warranted.

  
They won’t talk about what happened, because they never do.

  
He knows that Sherlock putting himself in hospital yet again will change nothing, Sherlock will continue to put his life on the line showing off, but John loves the danger, and while the whole thing was awful and John was nearly petrified with fear, he takes comfort in the knowledge that he knows him just that little bit more than he had before.

 


End file.
